


Win the Battle, but Lose the War

by hardtostarboard



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: M/M, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardtostarboard/pseuds/hardtostarboard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t kiss. That’s not what this is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Win the Battle, but Lose the War

**Author's Note:**

> First ever Transformers fic, written for a friend who was complaining there was no non-sticky Megatron/Starscream fic that she liked.

The first jolt of data flooding down the incomplete feedback loop always gets him. It pulls a hissing vent and makes him twitch, makes his fingers fumble, sends a twist of static pleasure up through his spark that dims his optics and buzzes his thoughts.

It makes Megatron laugh.

He hates it.

Claws slide and prick along a leading seam. He finds the larger mech’s input port with little difficulty, lifting his head up as he drives his own output line home. Sharp. He feels a spark chase up one of his fingers. It wipes the smirk off Megatron’s face, has those sharp teeth gritting in something that is close to, but not quite, displeasure. The seeker’s optics narrow in response to the negligible victory.

The outcome of every small battle is an indicator as to which of them might win the war.

There’s a flood of disorganised data as the initial haze of the completed circuit settles pleasantly over Starscream’s systems, a tangle of sensations as he’s suddenly aware of his own hands gripping over Megatron’s shoulders, eight pale lines already scored into his chestplate, dusted with flakes of metal. He’s aware of the raw power behind the body pinning him to the wall. His wings twitch, a small spasm of pain running through his backstrut as they flinch against the solid surface. Megatron grunts his own awareness of it, the phantom discomfort in a limb that he doesn’t have just unpleasant enough that he relents and eases his grip.

Starscream ex-vents slowly. This had been his idea. There’s a pile of discarded datapads somewhere (half of them on the floor, careful observations ended with strings of garbled nonsense), a chair knocked over on the other side of the room, a crack in one of the computer screens that may or may not have been caused when his aft hit it (it was). Why? He was bored, he wanted something, so he took it. Sometimes that line of thought actually ends in success. Sometimes Megatron is just as bored as him.

They don’t kiss. That’s not what this is. Starscream hisses low and soft as he’s hiked up against the wall by large hands that could buckle him with a fraction more pressure against his thighs. He drapes an arm over one broad shoulder, leans up close, taps Megatron’s head aside with the lightest flick of the tips of his fingers (and he snarls to that, Starscream feels the deep vibrations of it low in his vocal processor and it thrills him as much as it turns the energon to ice in his lines). His wings shift again, a muted click as his cooling fans turn on the only sound between them as he draws himself up to work his fingers beneath sensitive wiring just beneath the plating around Megatron’s neck.

It’s the steady feed of data, under it all, that’s the real source of gratification, but a little extra never hurts. A challenge, to see who might slip first.

This time, it’s Starscream.

Sharp fingertips trace a path up his back – Megatron cheats, he always cheats – and Starscream arches to it, holding a low whir in the back of his throat, his control slipping and allowing a thick pulse of data to flood into his processor. It sizzles along the circuits, barely held in check by buffers and firewalls and his optics shutter, mouth set in a thin line. Electricity prickles under his plating like an itch as he doesn’t dare take his attention off the larger mech as he struggles for control.

“Problem, Starscream?” Megatron purrs as he mounts a second assault on Starscream’s systems. A benefit to the link is that he can sense it coming, but the anticipation only adds to the difficulty in preparing for it.

“… No, Lord Megatron,” he responds, steadiness forced into his voice that wavers on the last syllable, quivering to a fraction of a higher pitch but he notices, and Starscream knows that he notices and he hates that too. He hates it enough to pull his processor together and force a pulse from his side of the link. A hum of satisfaction reverberates through him as he feels it crash and break through Megatron’s sensornet, sees the way his optics pinprick and feels his frame stiffen. He covers the response by shoving Starscream back again, bending his wings against the wall and ignoring, this time, the jolt of pain that results.

Starscream gasps, cooling fans cranked wide but drowned out, now, by the low, reverberating rumble of Megatron’s. He struggles and digs his claws against the broad chestplate in front of him, spiralling pain-pleasure and a second heavy data pulse slipping through. His optics offline, flickering back on a moment later to find a smirk being directed down at him and he growls, the fuzz in his processor making it difficult to think as a knot of pleasure coils around his spark and starts to build.

Problem? No, there’s no problem. There’s no problem as he drops his forehelm to Megatron’s shoulder and offlines his optics deliberately with the pretence of concentrating. It helps, a little, in separating the awareness of two different bodies, in sensing the delicate circuit of the feedback loop and he pushes through it, feeding back everything that Megatron gives him. He’s still fighting, still working his claws along sensitive seams and gaps in thick plating but slowly, very slowly, he drops several firewall sequences down and feels – to both his gratification and faint relief – that the other mech does the same.

The first pulse almost knocks his processor offline and he groans audibly, disgusted with himself in the moment that follows and barely able to keep it from seeping into the feedback as he twitches back against the wall. Each return comes like a slow throb through his systems, gathering more behind it each time until he doesn’t know if the tightness around his spark is his or Megatron’s, until he’s no longer sure if his hands are braced against a chestplate or curled just-too-tight around narrow thighs, until he can feel the weight and force of Megatron’s body so keenly that he could mistake it for his.

When his overload hits it’s sudden and sharp, forcing an arch of his backstrut as his body jerks forwards. Megatron curls down towards him, jerks his thighs up, snarls against his audial and Starscream hisses in response, only half in control of his body as his fans screech and uneven spasms run through his joints. His heels lock together as he rides the continuing loops of feedback until the pressure on his processor is almost too much, until he’s teetering on the edge of a safety shutdown and then he feels a firewall lift, the flood easing, and he knows it wasn’t him.

Static sparks crawl over them both, catching and jumping between their frames and Starscream’s optics turn on at a dim setting as he tilts his head back; surveys the mess he’s made of Megatron’s finish. He’ll be picking metal filings out of his claws for days. Everything feels rough and raw and it’s an effort to drag his buffers and system protections back up. His feet hit the floor, knees wobbling for a sparkbeat before he steadies himself, output line spiralling back to its housing as it’s released.

He removes himself from between the wall and Megatron with a neat side-step, flicking his wings absently and sliding the cover back over his input port. Megatron watches him, silent, and he feels his plating crawl.

“… Yes?” he gets out after a moment, after resetting his vocaliser with a soft click that feels far too loud. For an uncomfortably long few seconds he’s almost sure that Megatron will say nothing but he’s unwilling to turn his back on him when he might.  Then, Megatron moves, sweeps back to the earlier abandoned consoles and pauses, briefly, at the broken one. His voice is low and dismissive.

“That will be all, Starscream.”

Starscream’s jaw sets but he says nothing. His systems are still recovering, thoughts still faintly buzzed as he turns sharply and leaves. There’s the briefest of glances back, over his shoulder, as the doors slide closed behind him.

He lost this time. He hates that.

Next time will be better.


End file.
